ugakiknight

[ugakiknight]

E

To know my is to know my pain and to know my pain is to know you. No one in life can truly understand me without hearing your name.

[ugakiknight]

mistakes

When someone makes a mistake in life it’s like a cut to their soul. Some are a scratch from a branch and u don’t even notice, some are like the time you fell off a bike for the first time and grazed your knee which hurts in the moment but you learn from it, some are like a paper cut that really stings but in the long term don’t define you, some are like that one scar you have from accidentally getting ur arm cut on glass or a bit of metal that marks us forever and serves as a little reminder to learn from, some are self inflected from horrible times we went through when we didn’t know any better. Mistakes and cuts are there to be learned from, not something to be ashamed or defined by. 

[ugakiknight]

idek

I tell myself I shouldn’t go. That I don’t need to put myself through it. That there are a hundred other places I could go for dessert, that I could break the habit, that I don’t need to see her. But I go anyway.

San Churros feels colder now. I don’t know if it’s the air conditioning or just the way things have changed, but either way, it’s not the same. I know exactly what’s going to happen, exactly how it will play out. She’ll be standing behind the counter, hair tied back, same easy smile, the kind that used to be mine. And when I step up to order, she won’t flinch. She won’t falter. She’ll just punch in my usual, smile, and—like it means nothing—apply the discount. The same one she probably gives to every ex, as if that’s all I am now. Another name in the system. Another person she used to know.

She doesn’t know what it does to me. How it turns my stomach inside out. Because for her, it’s just another transaction, just another shift at work. But for me, it’s standing face-to-face with someone who once meant everything and now looks at me like I’m a familiar stranger. Like we never stayed up too late talking about nothing. Like we never had something worth remembering. I walk in knowing it will hurt, but she smiles at me like nothing ever happened, and somehow, that hurts worse.

I take my order and sit in the corner, knowing I shouldn’t linger, knowing I should just leave. But I can’t help it. I watch the way she moves, the way she laughs with coworkers, the way she exists in this space that used to be ours—except now, it’s just hers. I wonder if she ever hesitates when she sees my name pop up. If it ever tugs at something deep inside her, even for a second. If she ever thinks about what it all used to mean. But if she does, she never shows it.

She’s moved on. Probably in every way possible. I bet she doesn’t even listen to Olivia Rodrigo anymore. She was obsessed for a while—played SOUR on repeat like the lyrics were written just for her. But now? She’s probably found someone new to scream-sing in the car to. Probably rolls her eyes at how overplayed driver’s license is now, the same way she used to get tired of songs that once meant everything to her.

But I can’t move on. I can’t even press play. I can’t listen to Olivia without feeling like my chest is caving in, without being thrown back into that room, hearing her belt the words like she meant every single one of them. I wonder if she even remembers. Or if Olivia Rodrigo is just another artist to her now, stripped of all meaning, while I’m still sitting here with the weight of every lyric pressing against my ribs.

It’s not just the music. It’s everything. The littlest things—the ones she probably never even connects to me. Whenever I see someone with a hair tie on their wrist, I feel this sharp little pang in my chest, like my brain is trying to convince me, just for a second, that it could be her. I catch myself staring, knowing it’s stupid, knowing it means nothing, but still feeling that tiny flicker of recognition that never amounts to anything.

And then there’s the buses. I never thought something so simple could wreck me, but sometimes I’ll just be waiting, standing at the curb, and suddenly I’m back there. Back to all the times we waited together, side by side, leaning into each other in the cold, talking about everything and nothing. I remember the way she would complain about the wait, the way she’d fidget with her sleeves, the way she’d bump my shoulder just to be close. And then I remember that she probably doesn’t think about any of that. That she probably stands at bus stops now with someone else, in another part of town, talking about new things, wearing new sweaters, living a life that has nothing to do with me.

She probably walks past all these same things without a second thought. Without a flicker of recognition. Without feeling like she’s being haunted by a ghost that isn’t even dead.

And maybe that’s what stings the most. Not that it ended. Not that I lost her. But that she got to leave so cleanly, while I’m still standing here in the wreckage, picking up pieces she doesn’t even realize she dropped.

[ugakiknight]

Yuto

Was it casual when I went to the comments to see if anyone else experienced what you put me through? Searching for strangers’ stories, hoping to find some scrap of validation, some proof that I wasn’t crazy for feeling the way I did—for holding onto every word you said, every glance, every unspoken moment that felt like it meant something.

Was it casual when we stayed up till 3 a.m., even though I had a big exam the next day? When my body begged for sleep, but my heart begged for just one more hour, one more conversation, one more chance to feel close to you? You knew I’d stay awake for you. You knew I’d always choose you over everything, even when it hurt me.

Was it casual when we told each other things we thought we’d take to the grave? The deepest, ugliest parts of ourselves that we never dared to show anyone else. I handed you my fears and my shame, wrapped in trembling hands, and you did the same. I thought that meant something. God, I thought that meant everything.

Was it casual when you made a nickname for me? When you gave me something softer, something more personal, because you knew my whole life I’d only ever been “bro” or “son” to the people around me? For the first time, I felt seen, like maybe I was allowed to be something more, someone worth affection.

Was it casual when we played footsies waiting for your bus? Your socked foot brushing against mine under the bench, tentative, playful, as if we were testing the boundaries of what we could be. I can still feel the electricity of those touches, the warmth they left behind.

Was it casual when we sang karaoke, and everyone said I had the look of love in my eyes? I laughed it off, but it felt like the universe itself had pulled back the curtain and revealed the truth I’d been trying so hard to hide.

Was it casual when you liked the idea of me more than the reality? When I realized you loved the version of me you’d built in your head, not the flawed, messy person standing right in front of you? I wasn’t what you wanted, not really, but you kept me around because I was close enough.

Was it casual when your code name was one of my favorite characters? And now I can’t watch the show without choking on the memories of you—of the way your name was wrapped up in everything I loved, everything I thought was good and safe and real.

Was it casual when we sent paragraphs back and forth? When our days spilled into each other through text, when we dreamed about tomorrow and confided in each other like we were building a life together, even though we never called it that? Even though it was never supposed to be that?

Was it casual when I supported you to chase your dream job, even though your boyfriend hated the idea? When I cheered you on, even knowing I was just a shadow in the corner of your life, someone you turned to when he wasn’t enough?

Was it casual when I listened to every song you ever recommended? When I let your playlists bury themselves into my heart, each lyric a tiny reminder of you? And now I can’t even hear the opening chords without being dragged back to you, to everything we almost were.

So tell me—was it casual? Because it didn’t feel casual to me. It felt like everything. It felt like love. And maybe that’s the problem. It was never a relationship, not really, but it was so much more than nothing. At least, it was for me.

[ugakiknight]

that one surfs up quote

Riley’s this, Riley’s that. Riley’s too much, Riley’s not enough. Riley doesn’t try hard enough; Riley tries too hard. It’s always something, always some invisible bar I’m supposed to reach but can never quite touch.

The whispers sting the most, the ones they don’t think I hear. The offhand comments, the rolled eyes, the way they sigh when I speak like they’re already tired of me before I’ve even finished. “Riley’s always overthinking.” “Riley’s so damn sensitive.” “Why can’t Riley just relax for once?” As if I’m doing it on purpose, as if I like feeling this way all the time, like I’m too much and never enough all at once.

They don’t get it. They never do. I’m just trying my best. Every day, I wake up and put on this version of myself that I hope will be good enough. The one that won’t upset anyone, won’t draw too much attention, won’t make anyone roll their eyes or sigh like I’m exhausting to be around. I try to be the friend who’s there when you need them, the person who listens when no one else will. I try to be better. But no matter what I do, it’s never right.

If I speak up, I’m annoying. If I stay quiet, I’m distant. If I care too much, I’m overbearing. If I pull back, I’m cold. There’s no winning. There’s just the endless cycle of trying, failing, and trying again, hoping that maybe this time, someone will see me for who I really am instead of who they want me to be.

But they don’t. They only see the flaws. Riley’s too clingy. Riley’s too dramatic. Riley’s too serious. They pick me apart like I’m a puzzle they can’t figure out, and when they can’t make the pieces fit, they blame me for it.

And the worst part? I let them. I take the blame because maybe they’re right. Maybe I am too much. Maybe I do care too much, or try too hard, or talk too much, or feel too deeply. Maybe I really am the problem, and no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be the version of Riley that’s good enough for them.

Riley’s this, Riley’s that. Riley’s just trying his best. But I guess that’s never going to be enough.

[ugakiknight]

Break

Break my heart, break it a thousand times if you like. It was only ever yours to break anyway.

The thought surged through me like a whisper in the dark, quiet yet devastating. I sat there, staring at nothing and everything all at once, letting the weight of it settle in my chest. It wasn’t a new ache—it had been there for weeks now, dull and persistent, as if my heart had learned to bleed in silence.

I should have seen this coming. Maybe I did. Maybe I ignored every warning sign, every slight distance, every smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes the way it used to. But love has a way of blinding you, of convincing you that the cracks in the foundation are just imperfections to be cherished. I thought I could fix it. I thought I could hold us together, even as you were slipping through my fingers like sand.

You were my everything. My beginning, my middle, my end. I gave you pieces of myself I didn’t even know I had, little fragments of my soul I’d guarded so carefully until you came along and made me believe it was safe to let go. And you held them for a while, gently, like they were treasures worth keeping. But somewhere along the way, you must have grown tired.

I wonder if you even realized you’d stopped holding them, stopped holding me. It wasn’t a sudden thing, not like a storm that tears through the sky and leaves destruction in its wake. It was quieter, slower, like the way seasons change—one moment warm and bright, the next cold and unrecognizable.

And now here I am, sitting in the aftermath, trying to make sense of the ruins. I keep replaying the moments, the smiles, the laughter, the promises we made. I keep searching for the moment you stopped meaning them, for the exact second your heart stopped being mine. But I can’t find it. I don’t think I ever will.

It’s not your fault, I tell myself, even though it feels like it is. You can’t force someone to love you, not in the way they once did. You can’t hold onto something that was never really yours to keep. And I don’t hate you for it. God, I wish I could. It would be so much easier if I could bury this love beneath anger, if I could convince myself that you were cruel, or careless, or selfish. But you’re none of those things. You’re just someone who stopped loving me.

So break my heart, I think again, letting the words settle like a balm over the ache. Break it as many times as you need to, until there’s nothing left of me to break. Because even now, even after all of this, I know it was only ever yours. And maybe that’s the hardest part. Knowing I gave it to you willingly, knowing I’d do it all over again, even if it ended exactly the same.

[ugakiknight]

Loving What You Can't Master

There's a particular cruelty in loving something you’re no good at. It’s not the loud kind of pain, the sharp sting of rejection or failure. It’s quieter, deeper—like a dull ache that settles in your chest and never quite goes away. You try to ignore it, rationalize it, bury it under clichés about how effort matters more than results. But every time you step into the arena of your passion, it rises to the surface, impossible to ignore.

The worst part isn’t the failure itself; it’s the disparity. The gulf between your love for the thing and your ability to do it justice. You see it so clearly in your mind: the perfect note, the flawless painting, the story that feels alive. But when you try to bring it to life, your hands fumble, your voice cracks, your words fall flat. And no matter how much you practice, how many hours you pour into it, you can't bridge the gap.

You want to be better—not for fame or recognition, but because the thing you love deserves better than what you can give it. And yet, every attempt to improve feels like swimming against the tide. It’s frustrating, humbling, infuriating.

People tell you it’s the passion that matters, not the outcome. They say it’s enough to love what you do, to find joy in the act of creation. But is it? How do you reconcile that joy with the constant reminder of your shortcomings? How do you keep going when every misstep feels like proof that you weren’t meant for this?

And yet, you can’t walk away. Because as much as it hurts to fail, it would hurt more to stop trying. The love you have for this thing, flawed and unreciprocated as it may be, is still yours. It’s still real.

So you keep going. Not because you believe you’ll ever be great, but because you don’t know how to stop loving it. Because sometimes, loving something—even when it doesn’t love you back—is enough to keep you moving forward.

[ugakiknight]

thank you V

I never got to say thank you. I think about that more often than I want to admit. It wasn’t some grand moment I missed—no perfect time where the words were hanging in the air, waiting to be spoken. No, it was worse than that. It was the quiet moments, the in-between ones, where I could have said it and didn’t. Where I chose to let the silence stretch because I thought there would always be another chance. But there wasn’t.

You don’t realize how heavy something like that is until it’s too late to fix it. I think back to all the times you showed up for me—times when I was too blind to see how much it cost you. You didn’t ask for anything in return, never demanded acknowledgment or gratitude. You just… gave. Your time, your patience, your love. And I took it all, like it was owed to me, like it was something that would never run out.

But now? Now it’s all I can think about. How I never looked you in the eyes and said, Thank you. Thank you for being there when no one else was. Thank you for holding me together when I was falling apart. Thank you for seeing me, for understanding me, for loving me when I couldn’t even love myself. I should have said it. I should have said it a hundred times over, every damn day.

But I didn’t. And now you’re gone. And all I’m left with is this gnawing regret, this ache that settles in my chest and won’t let go. I replay every conversation, every memory, every fleeting moment, searching for a time I could’ve told you. It’s like sifting through sand, knowing the thing you’re looking for has already been washed away by the tide.

They say people know how you feel, even if you don’t say it. I hope that’s true. God, I hope you knew. Because if you didn’t, then what was the point of any of it? What was the point of your sacrifices, your love, if I couldn’t even give you something as simple as two words?

I’ll carry this with me for the rest of my life. That’s my punishment, I guess. But if I could have just one more moment—just one—I wouldn’t waste it. I’d grab your hand, look you in the eyes, and say it. I’d say it a thousand times. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. But I can’t. And that’s the part that hurts the most.

[ugakiknight]

Like Him

I catch myself sometimes, in the smallest moments—how I walk, how I talk, the way my voice hardens when I’m angry—and I feel it. Him. Like a shadow I can’t shake, like a ghost that follows me in the spaces I didn’t invite it into. My father. The man I swore I’d never become.

It’s strange, you know? I spend so much time running from him, trying to be anything but him, that it feels like he’s always there, just out of reach but close enough to see. Every time I slip up—when my temper gets the best of me, when I shut people out instead of letting them in—I hear his voice in my head, but it’s not his words. It’s my own. It’s me, becoming him in ways I don’t want to admit.

I used to think it was simple, like you could just decide not to be like someone. Like you could draw a line in the sand and say, That’s him. This is me. But blood doesn’t work that way. I see him in the way I avoid eye contact when I’m ashamed, in the excuses I make for myself, in how hard I am on the people who love me most because I don’t know how to let them love me without feeling weak. It terrifies me. What if I’m not as different as I thought? What if I’m just a softer version of the same damage?

But then, there’s this other part of me that fights it. This voice that says, You don’t have to let this define you. You don’t have to let him define you. And I cling to that. I have to. Because if I don’t, what’s the point of any of this? What’s the point of all the work I’m doing to be better, to be kinder, to be something he never was?

I want to believe I can break the cycle. That I can rewrite the story he passed down to me. But every day, I feel like I’m fighting against gravity, trying not to fall into the patterns that feel too familiar, too easy. It’s exhausting, honestly. There are moments when I think about giving up, about letting the fear win. But then I remember what it felt like to grow up under his shadow, to feel small and powerless, and I swear to myself I’ll never make anyone feel the way he made me feel.

I’m not perfect. God, I know I’m not. But I’m trying. And maybe that’s the difference. Maybe the fear of becoming him is what keeps me from ever truly being like him. At least, that’s what I tell myself. That’s what I hope.

[ugakiknight]

Hero

I leaned against the wall, staring at the cracks in the ceiling like they might hold some kind of answer. The words echoed in my head: You can’t be the hero in everyone’s story. God, I didn’t want that to be true. I had spent so much of my life trying to be exactly that—the one who could fix things, who could make everything better for everyone. If someone was hurting, I wanted to heal them. If they needed saving, I wanted to pull them out of the fire, even if it meant getting burned myself. But now, standing here with the weight of everything pressing down on me, I realized something I’d been too scared to admit: in trying so hard to be the hero in everyone else’s story, I had become the villain in my own.

I gave so much of myself to other people that there was nothing left for me. I let their needs, their struggles, their happiness consume me, until I couldn’t even recognize the person I used to be. I thought I was doing the right thing—I thought that’s what it meant to care. But the truth is, I let their stories drown out my own. I started to resent the people I wanted so desperately to help. I started to resent myself for never saying no, for never setting boundaries, for letting their problems become mine until I couldn’t tell where they ended and I began.

And the worst part? I became someone I didn’t like. Someone who was bitter, exhausted, and angry. Someone who would snap at the people I was trying to save. Someone who avoided their own reflection because it was easier than admitting what I’d done to myself. I thought I was saving everyone, but the person who needed saving most—the person I should’ve cared about—was the one I left behind.

I can’t be the hero in everyone’s story. I know that now. But maybe I can still change mine. Maybe I can stop trying to carry the weight of the world and focus on healing the part of me I almost let break. It’s too late to undo what I’ve done, but maybe it’s not too late to start over. To stop being the villain in my own life. To be something else—something better—for myself.

[ugakiknight]

Six

The results sat before me, printed in crisp black ink against the pale white page, six exams and six A’s. Perfect, or at least it should have been. And yet, my eyes didn’t linger on the rows of shining letters or even the two 100% marks that practically screamed perfection. No, they gravitated instead to the six tiny marks I’d lost, scattered across my exams like splinters buried under my skin. It didn’t matter that those marks were the difference between impossible expectations and outstanding achievement; it didn’t matter that people would call this a triumph. All I could hear in my head was a voice—my parents’ voice, my own voice—telling me that it wasn’t enough. Telling me that I wasn’t enough. The world around me blurred as I stared at the paper, my thoughts spiralling. It should have been a moment of joy, something I’d worked for, something I’d earned. Six perfect A’s. Two flawless exams. Anyone else would have celebrated, would have been proud of themselves, but I just sat there with this ache in my chest, this hollowness that swallowed every good thing I’d done and spat back shame. It wasn’t about what I’d accomplished, it was about what I hadn’t. Six marks. Six tiny mistakes. Six reasons for my parents to look at me with that flicker of disappointment they thought I couldn’t see, that quiet, sharp disapproval that always managed to cut me deeper than words ever could. I could already hear the comments in my head. “What happened here?” they’d ask, pointing out the losses as if they outweighed everything else. “Did you make careless mistakes? Did you not study hard enough?” And even if they didn’t say it, I’d feel it—the weight of their expectations, pressing down on me like a heavy stone, suffocating any sense of pride before it could even bloom. I wanted to scream, to throw the paper away, to run as far as I could from the relentless pressure that followed me everywhere, but I couldn’t. Because deep down, I believed it too. I believed I wasn’t enough. The fear was always there, lurking in the back of my mind, growing stronger with every good result I achieved. You’d think success would feel good, that it would build you up and make you feel invincible. But for me, it was the opposite. Every perfect grade wasn’t a victory; it was another link in the chain that bound me. Another standard I had to meet, another expectation I couldn’t fall short of. It felt like walking on a tightrope stretched over an endless chasm, each step more precarious than the last. And the better I did, the higher the rope was raised. One mistake, one wrong move, and I’d fall. I couldn’t breathe under the weight of it. The perfection everyone demanded, the perfection I demanded of myself—it wasn’t sustainable. But how could I let anyone see that? How could I tell them that every A I earned felt like a prison rather than a prize? How could I admit that the better I did, the more terrified I became of failing? People saw the grades and thought I had it all together, that I was confident and capable and unshakable. They didn’t see the sleepless nights, the way I agonized over every question, every answer, every detail. They didn’t see how I tore myself apart every time I fell short, even by the smallest margin. It was a paradox I couldn’t escape. The fear of failure drove me to succeed, but success only made the fear worse. Every A, every perfect score, every accomplishment—none of it brought relief. Instead, it tightened the noose around my neck, the one made of expectations and self-doubt and a desperate need to prove myself over and over again. And with every success, the stakes grew higher. If I failed now, if I fell even once, it would all come crashing down.

I looked at the paper again, my vision blurring with unshed tears. I wanted to be proud of myself, to feel like I’d earned something, but I couldn’t. The fear, the doubt, the relentless pressure—it wouldn’t let me. I could only see the six marks I’d lost, the six tiny flaws that felt like glaring failures. And in those flaws, I saw myself: imperfect, inadequate, unworthy.

Would I ever be enough? That question haunted me, day and night. It wasn’t just about the grades—it was about everything. I was constantly measuring myself against some impossible standard, constantly feeling like I was falling short. And the worst part was, I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know how to let myself be anything less than perfect, even though I knew it was killing me.

The fear of falling off, of failing, was like a shadow that followed me everywhere. It whispered in my ear when I tried to sleep, it clung to me when I woke up in the morning, and it was there now, wrapping itself around me as I sat staring at those six marks. It told me I wasn’t good enough, that I’d never be good enough, and no matter how hard I tried, it would never be enough to satisfy the people around me—or myself.

Six marks. Six tiny mistakes. Six reasons to feel like I was falling apart. And no matter how much I achieved, no matter how hard I worked, that feeling never went away. It only got stronger. It only got louder. And I didn’t know how much longer I could keep going.

[ugakiknight]

future

He sat alone in the quiet of his room, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. Outside, the world moved on—cars hummed down streets, people laughed in the distance—but in here, time felt like it had stopped. His chest felt heavy, not with excitement or ambition, but with a deep, gnawing dread. Everyone kept telling him he was destined for greatness, that he had something within him no one else did. They said it with awe in their voices, with pride, with the certainty that he would achieve something extraordinary. And yet, he didn’t feel proud or excited. He felt terrified.

It wasn’t the pressure to succeed that haunted him, though that was part of it. What scared him most was the idea that they might be right—that he might be destined for something so big, so monumental, that it would strip him of everything else. He would lose himself in the weight of it all. The person he was now, the person who still felt small and uncertain, would have to disappear to make room for what the world wanted him to become. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want the responsibility, the attention, the expectations.

He feared the future not because he doubted himself, but because he understood what it would demand of him. To step into his destiny would mean stepping away from the life he knew—the quiet, the simplicity, the small joys of just existing. What if he didn’t want to be great? What if he didn’t want the world to look to him? What if he just wanted to be free? But freedom, he realized bitterly, was not something destiny allowed.

And so, he sat there, his hands trembling as he stared at the reflection of a man he no longer recognized, wondering if it was possible to run from a future you already felt rushing toward you.

[ugakiknight]

opposites attract

A saying as old as time, like magnets, they’re drawn to each other with a force that feels both fated and inevitable. In theory, it’s simple. Two people, so fundamentally different, fill the spaces the other lacks. One brings light to shadows, the other calm to storms. Together, they should balance, completing each other in a way that feels natural, as if the universe itself crafted them to meet. It sounds perfect, doesn’t it? The quiet one learns to speak up; the wild one finds steadiness. They introduce one another to new perspectives, new experiences, new ways of thinking. They make each other whole. But in reality, it’s never that simple. For opposites to attract is one thing—but to work together? That’s another. Differences can complement, but they can also collide, and the collision often leaves wounds too deep to ignore. What begins as fascination can turn to frustration. The habits that once intrigued you start to grate, and the quirks that made them feel so extraordinary become barriers you can’t seem to cross. Because sometimes, opposites don’t balance—they tear. The quiet one feels unheard, overshadowed by the storm. The wild one feels stifled, caged by calm. You want them, desperately, because they make you feel alive, like you’ve been missing something only they can provide. And yet, you can’t ignore the aching truth that the very differences pulling you toward them might also be what drives you apart. You try to hold on, because isn’t that what love is supposed to do? It’s supposed to heal, to overcome, to transcend. But love doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes, it’s not enough to bridge the gap between two hearts moving in opposite directions. The pain of wanting someone who isn’t right for you cuts deeper than you expect. It’s not anger or bitterness; it’s sorrow. It’s mourning what could have been if only the pieces had fit, if only the differences could be reconciled. You’re left wondering if the attraction was ever real or just the illusion of possibility—the hope that this person might fill your empty spaces, when all they ever did was highlight them. Opposites attract, yes. But they don’t always last. Sometimes, the pull is just a fleeting spark, destined to fade, leaving behind the lingering ache of what almost was.

[ugakiknight]

the feeling

The feeling is layered, complex—a quiet storm within, blending a deep yearning for connection with a subtle undercurrent of fear. At its heart, there’s a persistent voice, a fragile whisper of caution, reminding you of past experiences, of all the times you’ve been vulnerable only to be hurt. This voice urges you to guard your heart, to stay vigilant, to keep a part of yourself protected from the possibility of loss. It feels almost like an instinct, an automatic reaction that tries to prepare you for something painful before it even happens. But then, being with her brings an entirely different reality into focus. Her laughter, bright and unguarded, feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. When she teases you, or touches your hand, or simply glances over with a soft smile, the voice of doubt fades, replaced by a warmth that feels disarmingly real. In those moments, it’s as if time slows down, and all the noise in your mind quiets. There’s no need to protect yourself, no need to predict the future or dwell on the past. It’s just you, her, and the weightlessness of a present moment that feels almost sacred. This presence, this openness, brings with it a strange sort of clarity. You begin to understand that the fear isn’t actually a warning to run; it’s a reminder of how deeply you feel, how much she already means to you. The fear of losing her or of things going wrong only arises because you care so much. There’s a vulnerability in this realization that’s both uncomfortable and exhilarating—because it means you’re taking down your walls, opening yourself up to something bigger than yourself, something that might change you. As you sit with these thoughts, you realise that the very act of feeling fear is a testament to the depth of your emotions. It’s almost as if the fear itself is a signpost, pointing toward a connection that’s worth the risk. You start to see courage differently—not as a lack of fear, but as the willingness to feel it, to let it coexist with hope, to embrace the possibility of both joy and sorrow, knowing that one cannot truly exist without the other. In this quiet, introspective space, you realise that love requires more than just feeling good in each other’s presence. It requires trust, acceptance of the unknown, and the choice to be fully present even when it feels uncertain. And maybe that’s the magic of it: the choice to be open, to be vulnerable, to share parts of yourself that you’ve hidden away. In the end, you understand that this willingness to embrace the unknown, to lean into the tenderness and fragility of love, is what makes the whole journey worthwhile. It’s not about avoiding the possibility of heartbreak; it’s about realizing that some things are worth risking everything for. And for her, for this connection that feels both terrifying and beautiful, you find yourself willing to try.

[ugakiknight]

red heart, blue heart

At some point, everyone finds their red heart. Often, it comes when we are young, when life feels endless and everything sparkles with possibility. This red heart could be the fierce, simple love for a parent, the pure joy of a loyal pet, or the comforting embrace of a favorite toy. For me, my red heart first ignited when my little brother was born, and suddenly, the world felt fuller, more radiant. In that moment, it was as if life itself was a gift I could hold, untarnished and unbreakable, where nothing could possibly go wrong.

The red heart isn’t just a feeling; it’s a time, a vivid era where joy is easy and each day seems to burst with color and warmth. But life has a way of shifting its hues, and that red can slowly, almost imperceptibly, turn to blue. The vibrant pulse of passion quiets, dimmed by a creeping melancholy. What once felt like a fire blazing within, full of warmth and light, becomes still, frozen—a slab of ice lodged in the chest. It’s not that blue hearts wish to shut themselves off from life’s brightness; rather, they become trapped in a cold they cannot shake, weighted by sorrow that settles heavily.

The danger of a blue heart lies in the chill it brings, how it seeps deeper, teaching you to live with its icy touch. At first, you long for the warmth to return, for that passionate red to surge back to life. But as time passes, you grow accustomed to the cold. Numbness replaces yearning. The frost becomes familiar, comfortable even, and you almost forget what it felt like to burn with joy. The longer a heart remains blue, the harder it is to remember what warmth felt like, let alone to find a way back to it.

Yet, deep within every blue heart lies a flicker of that old fire, waiting for a chance to thaw. It may seem faint, buried beneath layers of frost, but it remains—a stubborn ember that, given the right spark, could awaken the heart to life once more.

I think I’ve found my spark again, a glimmer of warmth in a place I thought had gone cold for good. It’s like a small fire that flickered to life when I wasn’t even looking, catching me off guard with its brightness. For the first time in so long, I feel a lightness in my chest, a stirring I almost didn’t recognize—a reminder of what it feels like to truly be alive. I’d grown so used to the stillness, to the blue quiet that dulled everything, that I’d forgotten what it was to feel awake to the world. But now, there’s this spark, fragile yet persistent, illuminating parts of me I thought had faded. And while I don’t want to rush it, I find myself hoping, truly hoping, that maybe, just maybe, this is the start of my heart turning red again.

[ugakiknight]

Love Songs

She’s the kind of girl love songs are written for—the one who fills my mind the moment a love ballad begins. When Tyler sings See You Again, her face is the only one I see, and when Die With A Smile comes on, it’s her that every lyric seems to speak about. She's the kind of girl whose laughter lingers like a melody you can’t shake, whose presence feels like the harmony you’ve been missing, the one who makes you believe every love song might just be about her.

She’s the girl you hope never gives you a reason to understand Heartbreak Anniversary or When I Was Your Man. You can’t imagine a world where those songs apply to the two of you—where that effortless connection would be reduced to memories and regret. With her, the hope is that love won’t just be a fleeting verse but a lasting song, a story worth repeating.

[ugakiknight]

Home

Supporting her is not just a desire but a dream I hold close to my heart, while the thought of disappointing her is a fear that lingers in the back of my mind. She’s one of those rare souls who comes into your life and immediately ignites a fire within you, pushing you to strive for more, to become the best version of yourself. Not because she asks for it, but because she inspires it simply by being who she is. With her, I feel more at home in my own skin than I ever thought possible, as if her presence alone gives me the permission to be fully and unapologetically me. When she holds me, it’s more than just a touch—it’s a return to a place of peace, warmth, and safety. It’s as if I’ve found my home in her arms, and every time we’re apart, there’s a quiet restlessness inside me, as if part of me is always seeking to return to that place of comfort and belonging. Without her, I feel off balance, like I’m missing a piece of myself that only she can provide. She has this way of making me vulnerable, but not in a way that makes me feel exposed or weak. It’s a vulnerability that’s liberating, as if with her, I don’t need to hide behind any walls or masks. I can show her the parts of me I’ve kept hidden, the parts of me I’m still figuring out. With her, there’s no fear of judgment, only acceptance. She sees me—my flaws, my imperfections, my dreams—and in her presence, I feel truly seen, understood, and loved. She is the person I can open up to without hesitation, revealing every shade of my true, unfiltered self. This connection with her feels rare, almost sacred, as if fate knew I needed someone like her to help me unlock parts of myself I never knew existed. In her, I’ve found more than just a partner—I’ve found someone who makes me feel whole, someone whose love feels like home.